Lunacy IV
by ahreseton
Summary: "The doorknob isn't part of the symphony of computerized voices, so every time you hear it, it breaks your monotone lull. Welcome back to reality, stop running away, stop—but see? in this fantastical world, nobody dies. So you decide to stay." / This is the final installation in a series yet to be written—and still, the finale demands to be told first. [A BLACK NUZLOCKE]
1. 1-1 NUVEMA TOWN

**1.1 NUVEMA TOWN**

* * *

The music fades to a heartbeat, yours, when you pass through those doors. It's magic every time, watching the landscape transform. The walls shoot up until they're bleachers which touch the sky; picture frames turn into the faceless audience whose words slowly start to replace the _thump_ , _thump_ of a heart. Skin 'em alive, we're rooting for you, fuck 'em in the asshole with no lube—fuck _me_ in the asshole until I bleed your babies, Champion! — these are their cheers, but they're not for you.

Stand, the floor demands of you as it pushes you heavenwards. Grab the railing in front of you, for the arena has dared to come alive, and this is your platform. Above you, the ceiling is psychic pink, a barrier forming which wishes to separate challengers and crowd; beneath you is an expanse of ground—a battlefield broken only by jagged rocks and white paint. Companions at your side—literally; in the balls that contain them, hitched onto the belt around your waist—you are ready. Welcome to the League.

A sharp dagger of a thought strikes the back of your mind: you'll beat him this time.

You'll beat him this time and, like clockwork, your heart becomes a drum abused—he appears, a picture frame like the lot of them: faceless, a distant memory at least. A resounding gong which refuses to still, still—still, my heart: a plea, because you've gotten this far before only to stop—

this isn't where you want this to end.

You'll beat him this time, but your pleas turn into bated breath, into bated breath, into bated breath, into _I can't breathe_ —stop, because his shoes have yet to kiss the metal of the platform. He steps, and ascends to your level—but Arceus, God, this is so slow that your body has found you a mistress in anxiety who holds you the way a proper lover would. She traces the length of your spine and sends tremors down to your knees—shaking. Breathe, and you'll beat him this time.

He lifts his hat and he's not so faceless anymore—hazel eyes that hold a promise to kill you before you kill him, you kill him— _you killed him_ —you shout, but there are no words. The same dagger strikes, but it pains you more than before: you'll beat him this time. The tremors still caress your legs but today, that doesn't matter because you find yourself standing, as the floor demanded of you. Your palms are crying tears of sweat, but there he goes—throws: the first of his Pokémon, and you remember it. Espeon. You've made it this far but this is not where you falter. This time, you _will_ beat him, and so you throw—white.

You almost hear him— _see_ him, the beloved Charizard you raised from infancy. Almost, but you don't—the light settles on your platform corroding. Steady yourself, but your mistress has decided to bless the pillar with her touch. Concrete, metal, machinery—succumb to gravity. The pink of the barrier is eroding into the crowd—the crowd, bubbles rushing into needles. Their heads pop, pop, _popping_ , one by one they smile their goodbyes: and I paid so much just to watch this match. What a shame, what a shame — and those are all for you.

Fall into me, your floor demands of you as it turns into a bed of thorns—but look! The ball, _his_ Pokéball, remains suspended in air, and for a moment, gravity abandons you as well. _Reach_ —

if you could just—

 _reach_ —

brush even your pinky—

 _reach._

you almost saw him aga—

it collapses into a rain of dust. Dust, red dust, clings onto your fingers as you begin your descent into the hell you've made for yourself. Red dust, crawling into your palms, coagulating into blood—crimson, his. It doesn't stop—it never stops—and you feel it: slithering up your arms, your shoulders, binding your neck. Your neck—you are coated in their blood, but that's no surprise. So do tell, why are you running away, Twyla?

 _Stop running away_ —

the handheld hits something—

"Ah, mom," you murmur, but you aren't here. Carpet, carpet— _thunk_ , and your hand hits the wood of your bed, _your_ bed. That you could call anything yours slows the beating of your heart to a staccato. It begins to fade, the crimson you see on your hands. Or perhaps it was never there, and your eyesight was merely playing tricks on you. Calloused fingertips onto sweaty palms—a routine at this point, and the results never differ: no trace of dust, of blood, of Red, of him. You breathe as you figure out you've returned. You sigh as you realize you never left.

* * *

 **A NOTE TO THE READER**

* * *

Hello all!

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I hope I didn't bore any of you, or disappoint you with my writing. The Lunacy series is one I've been wanting to write since I was what—twelve-years-old? I'm far older now, so finally being able to actually present this to you is somewhat of a dream come true! I'm really excited to get into the actual Nuzlocke of this piece, and I hope you all are too!

I apologize if this part doesn't go with what usually begins the Nuzlocke—you know, the Pokémon and stuff—but as this is the final installation of the series, it does carry its baggage. What I posted today isn't the entirety of the first chapter. But, as I've stated in the very beginning, Lunacy is rather demanding—not just of me, but of you all as well. Reading an entire chapter which is so emotionally-charged, so to speak, as the part above would be incredibly draining—especially if there are no lighthearted spells in between. And so, I've decided to work on Lunacy piece-by-piece. Hopefully, you will all be patient with me!

Please, feel free to share your thoughts, or ask any questions! Thanks again for your time!

 **Rese**

 _P.S. This Nuzlocke is also posted on the Nuzlocke forums at:_ _s7 dot zetaboards dot com slash_ _Nuzlocke_Forum/topic/11051140/1/?x=0#post11122814 (where the words "dot" and "slash" do translate to actual symbols)_ — _this link is also (conveniently) posted on my profile!_ _The rules of the 'locke, as well as updates that may not be available on this site, are available here!_


	2. 1-2 NUVEMA TOWN

**1.2 NUVEMA TOWN**

* * *

It comes like a pinch, the unexpected sort where their nails snag the thinnest film of skin—a jolt. Calloused fingertips against empty hands, you panic. _Where_ —you spot it on the floor, by your mother's feet. It must have hit her leg, and you apologize. Sincere, but occupied. Get it back, get it back, _go get it_ —but you don't get the chance. Your mother picks up the handheld. "Mom, don't—" but she doesn't listen. Instead, she folds it to a close—

"Mom, what the fuck— _no_!"

Go get it is a trance which leaves the both of you stunned. A blink: the handheld in your grasp is burning your flesh. She used to be immovable when you threw tantrums, when you swung your fists against her lap, when you pushed her with all your weight and expected the pain to get you what you wanted. She didn't even flinch—oh, but you were just a child then, Twyla. She could fit both of your hands in a clasp and carry you on her back like you were the world, Twyla. You were just a child then—who knew you'd grow up to be a monster? Not you—

Not _her_ : on the floor, recovering from the surprise that her daughter struck her down, and for what? A handheld—but, it's not _just_ a handheld, right? It's reality distilled into pixels, it's reality before its decision to hold you gunpoint, it's _your_ reality—the one you want for yourself. And she knows this, your mother, she knows this because you told her. She knows this, but she still closed the console— _but you threw it away._

You shake the thought off and turn the console over, only to be greeted by a slit of orange light which whispered: on. On. On, on, on, on on on on _on_ —

you lift the cover. The game is suspended in a screen of unmoving white _because you threw it away_. Justify your actions, but you only see the truth. Tangible, unlike those pixels—but those pixels _are_ tangible, or so you try to argue. But they are tangible, they are—an attempt to forget they're dead. The hardwood feels as if it has bitten down on your legs—paralysis. They are tangible… they are. Your grip on the console tightens, but it only burns deeper.

You feel a smile etching itself onto your head. Justify your actions, but you only see the truth. Small as you are, you tower over her crumpled figure. Push her down, but you can't even look at her—pathetic. Distract yourself with the sound of movement from the stairs. The footsteps you hear become hands that strangle the moisture from your throat, and give your heart a reason to race—hammers against a ribcage. Justify your actions, Twyla, or your mother will do it for you. Help her up, you bitch—but you're frozen.

 _Oh, Twyla, you must have a reason for pushing your mother, right?_

Your head snaps towards the sound of barking and a voice—a voice! There's hope that swells in your breast because _I can hear again!_ is a thought that occupies your mind. The same hope that's shot down as you forge connections between voice and face: Aurea, coming up the steps with your mother's Lillipup at her heel. The handheld in your grasp taunts you: you must have a reason for pushing your mother, right? That's certainly something Aurea would love to hear—

"What the hell did you do—" and just like that, she's by your mother's side. "Beth, are you okay?" but your attention is commanded by Mochi, bounding up to you with fur bristling. You don't need to understand his tongue to understand the aggression that laces his growls. The glint in his eyes alone tells you exactly what you are: scum. "I can't believe you," but that's not Mochi anymore.

Your head snaps up to meet Aurea's gaze, and the words escape before the thought even graces you. "I-I didn't mean to—"

"Aurea, please," and your mother places a hand on hers. "She was just surprised," she turns to you, a smile cracking her face, "right, sweetheart?" Sweetheart is said without a trace of bile, or irony. The word is a siren's call which lures you into believing. Believing that everything is fine now; believing that today is so easily excused by yesterday. And if your hands didn't collapse into her shoulders, then maybe you would have believed her—no, you _definitely_ would have believed her. There's your justification, Twyla; now you can crawl back into your room and rot with your handheld without feeling bad about everything you've just done.

Scum.

Her broken smile brings a blade to your palm and draws a long wound—chalk one up for Twyla! There's another person you've hurt, and now, you're forced to face her. See her again for the first time because you never bother to look—hints of age: the streaks of gray hair, the wrinkles, the crow's feet; hints of you: bloodshot eyes, the skin beneath them is weighed down by sleepless nights, and there, her face is gaunt from days spent without a meal. You know—you _know_ she dislikes the silence of an empty dining table, yet you condemn her to that fate anyway. She has never looked so spent, your mother, and though you look around for someone else to blame, there's no one around but you.

 _Stop running away_ —

"Twyla—"

I have to get out of here.

"—are you listening—"

It's not my fault.

Your mother places a hand on your cheek—you respond to her kindness with a flinch. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"

It is _my_ fault—

"I'm sorry," you say, but it's barely above a whisper—leave, your body commands you, and so the door slams shut with you on the other side. It locks with a _click_. The wood catches your back as you slide to the floor that's waiting to eat you alive. Their voices are muffled by the door, but that doesn't matter because this is routine. The words she'll tell Aurea are words you've heard over and over and over again for the past three years.

"Just give her a little more time."

A mantra: just give her a little more time, just give her a little more time, just give her a little more time—and it's been said so much you started believing that time would fix you. Cracked nails rest on your toes. The hamper in the corner is full, so laundry goes on the floor, intertwining with the candy wrappers and plates you left there to rot with you. A pack of cigarettes, never opened, and bottles of alcohol, never full, sleep on your mattress instead of you— _this_ is what healing looks like. This is what healing looks like— _this—_

You turn the handheld off and it screams— _please._ The screen bleeds and etches pictures into your flesh— _not yet_. You see wings like shattered stained glass, trying to flutter free beneath the rock that tossed itself into cathedral windows. You see a child hiding from a banshee's screeches, closing its eyes as claws enter its chest to steal a heart still beating. You see sanity eroding; being forced to bludgeon yourself to death at someone else's command— _I don't want to die, Twyla_ —

your handheld hits the window.

You shouldn't have thrown that because the screams return, and they return, and they return—but you didn't want them to die. The sound of teeth tearing through flesh, of backs hitting concrete walls, of rocks falling onto the Pokémon you cared for—those intertwine with their cries. The sound of _I don't want to die, Twyla_ , but you didn't want them to die. _You didn't do enough, Twyla_ —but you did everything you could! _And now your blaming your mother_ —you're not—

 _for all of your mistakes_ —

no!

 _You've broken her—just like you've done with all of_ us.

"Twyla?"

—and it's quiet. Open those eyes, take those hands off your ears: in your room is silence. You feel knuckles rasping against your door, and this calms you. A lullaby for your thoughts—thoughts that aren't real, real, real—

they aren't real. Pound your fist against the door: your reply to their concern. It tells them that you'll be out in a bit, and the knocking stops. You're left alone with static, the sort of silence old televisions perfected. Maybe the static is the screaming, only hushed— _stop_. Take it as simply static. Bring your chin to rest on your knees and fall into yourself. It's in pieces on the floor, your handheld, and still, it taunts you with a faint glimmer. Reality distilled into pixels—you told yourself over and over for the past three years as if the people who came in to pull you from stagnation weren't real. Reality distilled into pixels—you told yourself today in an attempt to forget that your mother isn't real. Your gaze falls onto your hands.

Scum.

* * *

 **GUEST.** Thank you so much for your kind words! :) Your readership means a lot to me; I hope I didn't disappoint with this!


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